


It Comes with Experience

by tenderly_wicked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Inexperienced Sherlock, M/M, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 21:03:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderly_wicked/pseuds/tenderly_wicked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?thread=128477702#t128477702">this prompt </a>. Things between John and Sherlock steadily become more flirtatious. John assumes they’re ramping up to a relationship, maybe they’ve even said as much, but once when John leaves early from a shift at the surgery, Sherlock is clearly in bed with another man. John is hurt and  angry at being led on, and Sherlock is confused: he’d hired an escort because he didn’t know much about sex and he just wanted to be good for John before taking their relationship to the next level.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Comes with Experience

**Author's Note:**

> And again, enormous thanks to my beta primalmusic :)

A bit awkward, this. John finding him with a naked man in his bedroom, and Sherlock in a rather unmistakably indecent pose, on his knees, mouthing the man’s balls. It’s just a brief moment—the door opening, “Sher—” and a confused “Oh”, and the door closing again.

“Won’t he join us?” the object of Sherlock’s attention asks playfully. But instead of getting pulled into a nice rowdy orgy, he gets shoved out, having barely a couple of minutes to pick up and put on his clothes in his haste. Well, Sherlock paid him beforehand, so there’s no reason to scowl.

Now, breathe in, breathe out. Time to have a conversation with John, probably an unpleasant one. Sherlock’s only in his jeans, barefoot, and for a moment he considers if it’s the right state of attire for a serious talk. But then, John must be used to seeing him half-nude, and has never objected to it. On the contrary, Sherlock has caught his occasional appreciative—albeit shy—glances right from the start. In the last few weeks John’s stared at him quite openly though, which is hardly surprising.

John is in the kitchen, unpacking the groceries he’s brought; in a blue striped jumper and worn-out trousers—he’s a picture of domestic comfort, but now he doesn’t look at Sherlock at all, not even sparing him a side glance as he says flatly, “There was no need to show your partner out.”

“He’s not my partner,” Sherlock retorts.

“Lover then? Whatever you call him. Doesn’t matter.” John continues loading the fridge. He’s angry.

“It’s a misunderstanding,” Sherlock says. It sounds ridiculous, and he knows it the moment the words slip from his tongue.

“Huh, is it?” John finally looks up, cold rage in his eyes, and pain too. “Let us set things straight then. I thought we were getting into something. You asked me to wait. You said you were not ready. Maybe you should have mentioned that you’re not ready because you’re dating someone else.”

“But I’m not,” Sherlock growls in desperation. “It’s just a deal. I pay him.”

“And how is that better?”

Now he needs to choose the words very carefully. “I needed to resolve some technical issues, that’s all. Consider it an experiment on a mannequin, of a sort. No attachment, nothing like it will be between _us_. I tried to practice… um… alone, but I need to see a reaction to understand if I’m doing everything right, and you don’t get much response from a dildo, do you, so…” He shrugs with an apologetic smile and suggests, hopefully, “I could show you what I’ve learned. You’d like it.”

John doesn’t seem impressed, at least not in the way Sherlock’s hoped. He looks repelled. “Don’t tell me you did it for me. That’s the most feeble excuse for cheating you could ever think of.”

“It’s obviously not for _my_ sake,” Sherlock snaps. “It’s not arousing in the slightest, putting some random man’s body parts in my mouth.”

Then John’s words catch up with him. Cheating. It means John considers them to be in a relationship, though they haven’t had sex yet. Oh.

“It’s not like that,” Sherlock assures him, still feverishly but trying to hold his voice back. “And if you’re worried about STDs, there’s no need to be. When I say ‘random man’, I mean he’s not of any importance to me, not that I’ve picked him up in the street without checking him first. I was very thorough about it.”

Secretly, he wants John to praise him. For his efforts, for being so meticulous. It feels all the more pathetic now that it’s clear: praise is hardly likely.

“If you’re uncomfortable with it, it won’t happen again,” Sherlock continues when he gets no response at all—John’s only pursing his lips, like he often does when he’s not sure what he should be thinking or saying. “I’ll learn anyway, even without assistance.” Still no reply, and Sherlock clarifies, “How to satisfy you. To be good in bed.”

His voice suddenly goes croaky, betrays him, despite his effort to stay calm. John frowns, clearly more bemused than angry at the moment. _An unfortunate phrasing_ , Sherlock realizes belatedly. Now, it would be only logical for John to ask, “So you’re not really good at it, are you?” And who’d want a clumsy, inexperienced thirtysomething for a lover?

“I’m not a virgin,” Sherlock adds hastily, before John says anything along that line. “I can endure anal penetration perfectly well. And some other things, with me on the receiving end. But surely you’d want diversity. Handjobs, blowjobs. More active participation on my part. I’ll provide that, given time.”

John fishes a single word out of this hurried blabbering. “Endure?” he repeats in a strange tone.

“Yes,” Sherlock confirms timorously, without his previous fervour. “It’s absolutely fine with me.”

Which is a lie, but at least he hopes he won’t embarrass himself again like he had done with Seb—biting into a pillow, trying to suppress a pained howl as Seb had pushed into him.

Now Sherlock knows what to expect, he’ll be able to brace himself and hold still. It had been his own fault that it had hurt at all; he hadn’t been able to relax properly. But in the end, a few weeks into his relationship with Seb, it had become almost bearable; not the white-hot, searing pain of the first time, just an unpleasant burning. Seb had been generous enough to bring him off with a hand afterwards, when the ache had subsided a bit, though of course it had been a huge disappointment that Sherlock hadn’t seemed to be able to come from anal sex alone. Some men could, in the porn movies Seb had secretly enjoyed watching. Sherlock had wanted to learn, he really had, but Seb had got bored of him before he’d succeeded.

The relationship thing hadn’t been easy, but Sherlock had liked it the way it was—breathy kisses, bodies pressed together, the warm glow of desire making him oddly laidback and pliant. He’d liked the feeling of being wanted, and occasional praise, and Seb absently running a hand along his spine. If it had come tainted with a little discomfort, he’d been able to deal with it. But it had all ended because he hadn’t been good enough, hadn’t tried hard enough.

He can’t let it happen again, with John. For him, Sherlock would stand so much more. Soreness, bleeding, gagging. It would be nothing compared to what he could get in return—intimacy, passion, undivided attention. He’s been more or less well on his own for quite a long time, he’s almost managed to convince himself he doesn’t need all this, especially because there hasn’t been anyone to interest him in carnal needs, but going back to being alone _now_ would be excruciating.

John rubs the bridge of his nose. “You’ve been in a relationship before, right?”

“I’m not a virgin, I told you. So obviously yes.” That much is true. If John doesn’t ask, there’s no need to specify that it was only once, at uni, a long time ago. Not enough to count as vast experience in this field.

“Was it that bad?”

A perfectly logical assumption. Sherlock turns to the kitchen window, unable to hold John’s appraising gaze. His bare feet are getting cold, and he starts feeling goose bumps on his arms too. “Yes, all right, I was bad at it then. I was awful. But I can learn. I can improve… my skills. It’s just that for quite a while I haven’t had someone to do it for.”

John sighs shakily, like Sherlock hasn’t answered his question at all. “Tell me this. I haven’t been with men that often either, so do you want me to do the same—practice on someone else until I’m perfect?”

This utterly ridiculous thought makes Sherlock wince. “Of course not.”

“Why?” John demands, voice strained and husky. “How’s it different? If I’m not to improve my skills too, as you put it, why should _you_ strive to be ideal then?”

“You’ll be disappointed if I’m not.” The words burst out before Sherlock can think of something more suitable.

There _is_ a difference. John might not see it just yet, but he’s the one who’s in control here. He can stay or leave if something isn’t to his liking. He’ll find someone else, someone better, that’s what people do when their affair doesn’t work out.

For Sherlock, it’s not the same. No one could possibly take John’s place; he seems to have struck roots too deep into Sherlock’s life. It’s the first time in years that Sherlock has felt this way, and it scares him. It’s worse than it had been with Seb—not just a silly infatuation but something more complex, a hope of affinity that could last for a lifetime… if only the poor quality of sex doesn’t spoil it all. Sherlock knows all too well that it’s highly possible. John’s got used to his odd habits and mood swings and other things that make him unlikeable, but sex could be a problem. It’s obviously important to John, just like to other _normal_ people. People who’d rather have good sex with someone they don’t care about than no sex at all, or a bad version of it.

Seb had got bored in four months. At first, Sherlock had hoped it was reversible, tried to provoke him. Seb would come down to breakfast in the Formal Hall and Sherlock would tell everyone if he’d been shagging the previous night—with someone else—which of course had only led to Sherlock being called a freak. And to rough, angry sex a couple of times, when Seb had caught him on his own. He’d been pushed against a wall, with his hands wrenched behind his back… but it hadn’t meant anything, as Seb had deigned to explain him afterwards.

Just a few months with John—it’s not enough. Sherlock would do anything to delay the moment when John starts entertaining the possibility that he might be wrong choosing Sherlock—of all people—for a lover. But still, it’s very likely that sooner or later John will, especially given his sexual orientation issues in the past. If John ever leaves, and finds a nice, convenient girlfriend instead, they’ll probably stay friends anyway. On the other hand, that had been his intention with Sebastian, but soon it had all been reduced to helping Seb with his coursework, and then to an occasional email in every few years. _How’re things buddy? I hear on the grapevine that you’re now a consulting detective. Will you sort something for me?_

After a long pause, John quietly says, “Didn’t you think I’d be disappointed to see you having sex with someone else?”

Sherlock doesn’t know how to bring this conversation to an end. He needs a cigarette. He needs to keep his shaky hands still, so that small nervous movements won’t give away how panicky he really is. He desperately wants to fast forward his life to the moment when they’re lying in bed together, naked and satiated, sleepily romping about in a tangled mess of sheets and giggling over something utterly stupid, still friends, still fond of each other, despite the not-perfect sex they’ve just had… if they are ever going to have sex, now that John’s taken the whole situation with the escort so badly.

Sherlock clears his throat. “I apologize.” It’s not something he says too often, so it should make a good impression. “I wasn’t thinking of it as ‘having sex’, since it was only a technicality for me, but I see how you might be of entirely different opinion. I was wrong. I admit it. Won’t happen again.” Then he blurts out before he has time to change his mind—it’s worth a try—“Will it help if you punch me?”

“Excuse me, what?”

“Punch me. In the face. Maybe it’ll help to get it all out of your system.”

John takes a step toward him, a crease deep between his brows, and Sherlock fails to suppress an instinctive flinch. Stupid. He was asking for it, so why recoil? But instead of throwing a punch, John stops in front of him and tentatively touches his arm, fingers ghosting over his bicep. “I very much want to punch whoever you were dating before.”

It’s unexpected. And John’s hand, it’s distracting. Just like always when John is standing too close to him, Sherlock feels his skin itching for more contact, his pulse elevating. He doesn’t know what to say, except for, “I don’t want you to leave, that’s all.” It sounds like a plea.

“I’m not leaving, Sherlock. You should know by now, it’s not so easy to scare me off.” It’s a feeble smile, but still a smile, and now both of John’s hands are resting on his forearms. “If we’re going to have sex—sometime—I want us both to enjoy it. It’s not an ordeal, it’s not a test you should pass, and not some equilibristic trick. It could be fun for us both. We don’t have to do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable.”

Just like John usually does, Sherlock picks up the most important word. “If?”

John chortles. “All right. When.” And then asks, seriously, “Do you want it?”

“Very much so.”

Could it really be… fun, as John calls it?

“Christ, you’re cold,” John says and pulls him closer, enveloping Sherlock into his warmth, breath ticklish against Sherlock’s chest. It’s strange that hugging can be so erotic and comforting at the same time. “So no more escorts then? Agreed? I don’t like the idea of you with someone else. I’d prefer us, er, being monogamous.”

Us. It makes Sherlock’s heart leap, but his voice is calm when he promises, “Easy. I don’t lust for anyone else anyway. You’re an exception.”

John’s lips quiver in a smile against his skin. “It’s nice, being exceptional. Well, you’d know how it feels.”

Right now, maybe he does.

**Author's Note:**

> There's a sequel to this story: [Will You Still Love Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1104993).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [This Is New](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082358) by [loveanddeathandartandtaxes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveanddeathandartandtaxes/pseuds/loveanddeathandartandtaxes)




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